After All
by sick-atxxheart
Summary: Azkaban has broken Harry's mind, but it hasn't broken his logic. Escaping from Azkaban isn't the easiest thing he has every done, but it's the one that makes the most sense.


_Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,  
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,  
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;  
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there  
But only agony, and that has ending;  
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death._

-part of 'Peace', by Rupert Brooke

--

A dark fairy-tale song was hummed under his breath morosely as Harry Potter continued staring at the shattered black brick wall that sat, unmoving, across from him. He idly picked at the dirt that was now most likely permanently residing under his fingernails; dirt seemed to be a constant in this place.

Harry wasn't sure how much time had passed since- well, since anything, really. Since he had been thrown in this hellhole; since he had been at Hogwarts; since he had been at the Dursleys; since he had last eaten, in fact. Time wasn't really all that important, anymore.

Through it all, the wall still remained.

Harry stared at it for hours upon hours, counting every little crack and shatter in its old body. Of course, immediately after doing so he forgot how many there were, and started yet again; but that fact was unimportant, since he couldn't remember the fact that he forgot either.

The Dementors still came, even more regularly than before, and Harry was sometimes surprised that he could even remember his own name after some of their visits. Apparently, their new favorite pastime was to make him scream from the agony of his own memories.

Now, Harry Potter was not particularly a fan of screaming. He had encountered enough of it in his life; suffered through it enough, in fact. However, here… things were different.

Harry screamed. He screamed his head off, simply because it felt good, and bloody _hell_, because _it hurt_- and he screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed-

Until one day, when all he could do was laugh.

The realization that had come to his mind was not only so absolutely _absurd_, but it was also ridiculously brilliant. Everyone, _everyone_- all those people in the Wizarding world- they were all fools.

They had chucked him in Azkaban, left him to suffer and scream and cry out and surely go mad; and oh, he surely had. He had suffered, and screamed, and cried out-

And now, he had gone mad, and they would pay.

After that, all that _really_ mattered was what to do next. The realization that everyone had thought Azkaban could hold him angered Harry even more; was he not son of two of the strongest witches and wizards on the Light side? Did they really not see that he had his own power, his own mind, his own magic- they may have taken away his wand, but they had not, would not, _could not_ take away his power…

Harry slept fitfully, and he dreamed of being free- of proving all of them wrong, of finally being something other than a pawn.

It had taken some time for him to properly gain back his strength. He knew that Azkaban had magically suppressive bonds placed around it; but Harry had found that despite it all, he could still perform magic. Harry didn't know why, but if he had to guess he would have said it was because of the bond between him and Voldemort himself.

The irony of it was just precious- Voldemort's worst enemy was now bound in prison, and it was his own magic that allowed that very same enemy to escape. It was _their bond_ that allowed Harry to do magic; it was that bond that he hated so much that would ultimately prove to be his salvation. Oh, the irony.

Harry was very grateful that Severus Snape had insisted on teaching them wordless magic; however, Harry was even _more_ grateful that Hermione had taught him wandless magic. It was a skill, she had said, that was immensely necessary for Harry's survival.

As it turned out, she had been right, and Harry made a mental note to thank her when he broke out of the hell that had became his life.

Those were the memories that tortured him the most- the good ones, of his times with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. The Weasley family. Remus. They had been the only ones who believed his story- of _course_ he hadn't killed Neville, he was his friend. The accusation had been completely absurd, and Harry would have bet his life that everyone knew it. However, blaming someone was always better than having no culprit, or even turning to what was obvious- that something bigger had caused the fiasco.

Harry sighed, shaking his head. Bloody fools- they had gotten it _so wrong_, so very wrong that it was almost unbelievable. Had they really expected their _Savior_ to be very cooperative in helping them, after a lovely stay in Azkaban? Had they even expected him to maintain his sanity?

Harry wasn't even sure sometimes if he even _had_ maintained his sanity.

Because there were moments- moments when he couldn't _quite_ remember what he had been doing, or thinking about. There were times when he had thought he would be doing one thing, and found himself doing another- times when he wished more than anything to be dead, and then times when all he wanted was to truly be alive. He would wake up, sometimes, to find his arms scratched and bleeding- and other times he would sleep through the night easily. Every once in a qhile he would remember something, something important; and then the next moment, the next _second_, the memory would be forgotten just as quickly as it had come. Sometimes, he didn't remember anything at all.

Was that crazy?

Harry wasn't exactly sure, but what he did know was that when he truly dreamed, he dreamed about unrealistic things. He dreamed about those his mind told him were dead; he dreamed about floating; he dreamed about jumping off the highest tower he could find, just to hear the wind whipping around his body and have the feeling of nothingness all around him.

But most of all, Harry dreamed about death, and found that more than anything, it was what he feared most of all.

Harry feared death, and found himself more and more understanding why Tom Riddle felt such a desire to become immortal.

Because death- _death_- was so strange. So unreal. It was like something that Harry couldn't quite wrap his mind around- being gone forever, and never coming back. How was that possible? Did your life really have such a little impact on the world that you could just disappear, without a second thought, without your own choice?

_The fear of death follows from the fear of life. _Harry was reminded of a quote he thought that someone had said to him once- maybe Dumbledore? Sirius? Remus? He couldn't quite remember, and found it quite an insignificant fact. But what if it was true? Was he afraid of life?

The answer came easily. Yes, he was very much afraid of life.

But that small admission did nothing for the fact that _death_ was what shot fear through him every time he thought of it; death was what made him shiver with fear, lying in his small prison cell in Azkaban. _Death_ was what had him desperately thinking up escape plans, so that he wouldn't end up lying here, dying here, for the rest of all eternity.

It seemed to take _years _(maybe it was, after all) for Harry to feel strong enough to attempt an escape. He had by now completely memorized his days; the Dementors came at the same time every morning, afternoon, and evening.

Harry chose to attack just after the Dementors left in the morning. It was then that the screams were often the loudest, and in the morning the guards were often occupied with feeding the prisoners. Yes, it was then that Harry would escape.

He had decided that an explosion would be best. Gratefully Harry had passed his Apparition test before being sent to Azkaban; of course, he had been stripped of his license, but that didn't matter much, did it? Regardless of where he ended up, there was no doubt it would be better than where he currently was.

Harry had practiced. He had blown up little things- any crumbs he could find, small pebbles and rocks that fell from the shattered wall Harry had astoundingly almost grown fond of. Not all of the attempts had been successful, but those that had been had made Harry exceedingly happy. He vowed he would keep trying to blow up the wall to the right of him until he succeeded.

After all, he really didn't want to blow up the kind little shattered wall he had stared at for only Merlin knows how long. Although even Harry still had enough sense of mind to understand that _loving_ a wall was completely insane- but it had been the one solid, stoic thing during the now-hardest part of his life. There was a lot to be said for that.

Sighing, Harry looked up at the hole in the ceiling. It was quite a nasty bugger when it rained, but when it was a nice day out Harry found it extremely useful. Sometimes he would go and sit in the sun, wondering what it would be like to feel it fully again- and sometimes, Harry got a much-needed bath under the spray of the rain. It wasn't a very big hole, to be sure, but it was big enough to serve its purpose. Besides its other uses, the hole also was an extremely handy time-keeper.

Harry had many times cursed the fact that Azkaban had no clocks. That, too, was a strange thought- but really, all it did was confuse the prisoners even more. Harry supposed that actually was the intent, but he hated it all the same and wished it wasn't so.

It had taken Harry a good hour to recover from the Dementor visit, and he found his throat nice and sore, just as usual. He had been screaming again.

Shaking his head to clear it, Harry slowly stood up, saving his energy. After all, it wasn't like they fed you much in prison. After all, it wasn't like the prisoners were worth anything.

Taking a deep breath and clearing his thoughts of all things except his intention, Harry shakily stretched out one dirty hand. Slowly, he whispered one word, waiting. _Waiting_.

Nothing- nothing- nothing- and then…

Harry was thrown backwards into the door to his cell, hitting his head severely on one of the stone beams. A resounding "Ow!" was heard throughout the prison cell, but then Harry was up, walking slowly in amazement to the ledge his spell had just created.

_It had worked. _It had really worked- and Harry was amazed. It was hard to reveal to himself, even now, that he hadn't expected his crazy plan to work; but it had, and he was free. He was free- free- free-

His mind was dancing in circles, he wanted to scream in happiness for the first time in what seemed to be ages- but now, now…

Now all he had to do was escape the yelling guards who were no doubt running frantically towards the boom his explosion had made.

Concentrating once again, Harry took another deep breath and turned on the spot, focusing on his intended destination. He was grateful for once when he felt the familiar feeling of Apparition; despite the pain it always seemed to cause, it meant he was escaping. It meant he was feeling. It meant he was _free_.

Harry sighed as soon as he arrived at his destination, took another deep breath, walked ten long strides, and then turned once again on his heel and Apparated. He wouldn't have been surprised if the Ministry could trace Apparation; so he had come up with the plan to move a good three or four times. He knew it would exhaust him, but it was a necessary precaution, and so he would do it.

Countryside flashed by as Harry continued. He was making easier jumps, now; just places he had seen, little trees along the track for the Hogwarts Express, mainly. He could feel his mind starting to turn into thoughts of nothingness… it was getting harder to concentrate on his next destination; his body was losing energy, fast, and he thought he might collapse…

His final destination was the Burrow; Harry knew it was an alarmingly obvious place for him to end up, but the truth was, he had nowhere else to go. His best guess told him that the Weasleys' wards would still be keyed in to his magical signature, and allow him entrance; but of course he was betting his life on that guess, and he hoped to Merlin he was right.

He was.

The familiar sight of the Burrow brought extreme relief to Harry, and he couldn't help but breathe a sigh of contentment when he saw the little gnomes in the garden and the familiar orchard in the distance he had played Quidditch on so many times. This place felt like home.

Harry had to use all his energy to get himself up to the front door of the odd-shaped house, and it took even more to even raise a fist to knock on it. As soon as he did, Harry nearly fell over, but picked himself up just in time.

When the door opened, he was greeted with the face of a stunned Mrs. Weasley, who looked shocked and relieved at the same time.

Harry took this to be acceptance, and promptly fainted away on the doorstep from exhaustion.

--

He slept for days before waking, and when he did, Harry found Ron and Hermione sitting around his bed, having a very lively conversation about the apparent downfalls of the Ministry. Harry just listened to them for a few minutes before shifting very discreetly, enough for them to notice. The reaction was immediate- he could hear both of them shift eagerly in their chairs, leaning towards his bed.

Harry slowly opened his eyes and groaned without thinking. He had been amazingly exhausted, and he would admit to anyone that this was the best sleep he had ever had. Being stuck in a place where nightmares are all you can dream of really isn't conducive to great sleep.

"H-Harry?" Hermione's voice was hesitant, questioning. Harry turned his face slowly to look over at her, and the smile that lit up her face was truly blinding.

"Hey, Hermione…" he said slowly, moving slightly as if to sit up. He still found himself very weak, but after a few tries he accomplished it.

"Hey, mate." His voice was small but strong as he looked at his friends. The shock on their face was apparent.

"Are- are you allright, Harry?" Hermione said timidly, not really knowing where to begin. Harry smiled gently at her.

"Never been better." The touch of sarcasm in his voice didn't go unnoticed by his friends, but the lack of malice in his voice was also apparent, so they simply ignored his statement.

Hermione seemed to be ready to jump, so Harry looked questioningly at her. That was all the encouragement she needed to stand up abruptly and hug him with a force Harry hadn't known she had in her.

"Ouch- Hermione- geroff- please- Hermione-" Harry's gasps went on for a few minutes before the girl finally let go of him, tears streaming down her face.

"I'm sorry, Harry!" she exclaimed, sobbing openly now. "But I'm so glad you're back- you're allright-"

Ron seemed to be ready to say something. "Well, I don't th-"

Harry cut him off, however. "Well, not completely," he said without a smile. "But, I'm alive, and that's what matters."

Both Hermione and Ron nodded emphatically, and Hermione said sadly, "Please tell us, Harry." Her desire to know not only how he had escaped but what had happened during his stay in Azkaban was apparent, so Harry indulged his friend with the information.

"I- I exploded the wall," he said slowly, almost as if just remembering exactly what had happened.

"But you're not- you can't- magic doesn't work in Azkaban!" Hermione interrupted him hotly, looking alarmed. Harry smirked at her.

"Well, thanks to good old Voldemort himself, our bond allowed me to do magic through him," Harry explained, smiling sadly. Hermione looked shocked, but after a minute what he had said sunk in and she began to look convinced.

Harry continued. "I… I then Apparated to different locations, so I wouldn't be traced."

"But that must of exhausted you!" Ron butt in, looking rather pleased with himself for discovering such a fact. Harry nodded, laughing just a bit. He was slightly amazing himself with how… normal he was acting. It couldn't be real, could it? Could everything he had experienced just be… gone? Forgotten?

Pushing his thoughts aside, Harry said, "Well, yeah, it did. Didn't you notice how I collapsed when I got here?"

Hermione and Ron both laughed lightly, and the tension in the room was still noticeable. There was a silence that was just a level below uncomfortable before Hermione asked the obvious question.

"A-are you… did i-it- Oh, I give up- are you the same, Harry?" Her face still had tears rolling down it as she asked the question, but her care for him was obvious. Harry sighed.

"I don't know, Hermione. I- I don't remember sometimes- I.. I c-can't- I don't k-know-"

Before he knew it, he was crying, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Hermione and Ron were there comforting him, letting him know they would be there for him, that they still believed him, and that everything would be allright; they told him that the Order would protect him, aside from Dumbledore, who had accused him. They told him that they loved him, and that he was fine, and they were proud of him, and that there was nothing to be ashamed of in crying…

And it all felt right to Harry. Everything was going to be okay, in the end. He would make those who had hurt him pay, still.

But for now, he was home.

--

**Please review. Not sure where this came from, but I like it. What did you think?**

**The quote "**_The fear of death follows from the fear of life_**" was said by Mark Twain. **

**Please review.**


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